


The Artistry of Crossing Paths

by plasticdaisy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Artists, First Meetings, Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Meet-Cute, One Shot, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticdaisy/pseuds/plasticdaisy
Summary: Dave finds a sketchbook on a bench in a park and makes it his personal mission to return it to the artist, despite there being no name or address inside it.





	The Artistry of Crossing Paths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



I’m not a nosy guy.

I get curious, sure – as much as anyone else does, but I wouldn’t say I’m someone who frequently _indulges_ in the business of others. After all, I like people to keep their distance from my personal life, so I do the same for them. Whether it’s out of maturity and mutual respect or just a huge precaution is a total mystery to me.

That being said, when I found a little leather notebook on the bench I had stopped at in the park, I opened it to see if it had a name or address in it; no other reason.

I stopped to take my camera out of my backpack, and I had seen the notebook out of the corner of my eye. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I picked up the book and unwrapped the leather strap, opening it to the first page. No name or address – just a drawing of a flower.

I don’t know the exact type, but it looks like a lily. It’s detailed, like I could pull it from the page; delicate inked lines outline the flower, which is colored with what I can assume are colored pencils. Looking at it made my chest feel a little lighter.

I flipped to the last page, too, which was empty – whoever had drawn the flower hadn’t finished the sketchbook.

At the time, I had felt conflicted. I first looked around helplessly; for someone who looked like they were searching for something, perhaps. That, of course, was not promising. I debated leaving it there, but seeing as this is a city, the chances of someone else taking it are pretty high, too. It came to mind, then, that this could be an expensive notebook, and this is someone’s _art._ I thought about leaving one of my myriad of point-and-shoot cameras behind, or losing an SD card.

So, against any clear-minded judgement, I took it with me, which leads me to my current situation: sitting at my desk, my eyes trained on the binding of closed notebook and my fingers buzzing with something between nervousness and anticipation.

There _has_ to be something in this book that tells me who owns it.

I just have to complete the arduous task of hurdling over the massive divider between what feels like being _kind_ and what feels like being _nosy_ – I don’t know if I’d want someone looking through my photography to find out who I am so they could return my camera, as much as it would suck to lose one.

I take in a deep breath and unwrap the notebook, flipping past the page with the lily on it. The next page is another flower. It curls around a skull. This one is only inked, detailed with little black shaded lines. It’s beautiful, in a different way than the flower; it feels like its crawling under my skin, like it sees something beyond my surface.

I flip the page. Again, again, again.

I love looking at the drawings, but I remind myself that I shouldn’t be studying the flowers – I need to look for something that tells me a location or a name. Fifteen pages pass, and I run a hand down my face. I’m beginning to feel like perhaps this wasn’t a good idea; if all this person draws is _skulls_ and _flowers_ I’ll just be someone who stole a drawing pad.

“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath, flipping the page again.

I pause, pinning down the corner with my thumb. My nail-polish is chipping; I’ve been picking at it all afternoon.

This page is covered in inked letters in different colors, like the artist was practicing their typography. I examine the words, though most of them are fairly generic; words like ‘the’ and ‘summer’ and ‘white’ and ‘black’.

The side of the page looks like its smudged with something. I push my shades up onto my head, examining it more closely. It looks like it might be chalk or pastels.

I turn the page.

There’s a bunch of colors smudge at the top, like swatches, and they’ve rubbed onto the back of the page covered in letters. Underneath them are sketches of … fruit? They’re more stylized than the other drawings, and they aren’t inked or colored. Each of them is framed by leaves.

My brow furrows.

I turn the page.

Sketches of cup-shapes litter the page, and at the bottom an inked rendition of the Starbucks logo.

“Oh, shit,” I stand up, trying not to shake the notebook in my hand as I spin around, pacing behind my chair, “I’m a fucking genius. A master sleuth. A modern Sherlock Holmes.”

My shades fall back down onto my nose. I fix them.

I pull my sweatshirt over my head, hastily packing my backpack and shoving the notebook in the front pocket. I put in my earbuds and blast “The Distance”.

It takes ten minutes to skate back to the park where I found the notebook, and sure enough, there’s a Starbucks across the street. If my assumptions – which I now realize could be a little _loose_ – are correct, he could be a barista.

Whether or not he’s on shift will be a bit of a gamble, and it strikes me that maybe he’s just a guy who likes to draw cups for some reason. We all have our thing. I run a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath, and pick up my skateboard, shoving it under my arm.

I cross the street hastily, my mind spinning so fast it’s a miracle that I don’t get hit by a speeding Prius.

I push open the door to the Starbucks and the warm air hits me hard; it’s not uncomfortable but if I were sitting down, I’d probably roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I take a quick look around; there aren’t many people sitting inside, and there isn’t a line.

My eyes cross the room frantically, until I see one of the boards – sure enough, it’s in the same style, but beautifully blended and colored.

I wring my hands together; they suddenly ache with nerves. Someone enters behind me, and I step out of the way, pretending to browse the menu. She huffs, walking past me and joining one of the few guests sitting at a table.

Hearing a shuffling sound, I rapidly turn my head, seeing one of the baristas pulling his apron off. He’s on my side of the counter, standing and talking to the person at the register.

He’s cute; his hair looks a little overgrown, and it frames his handsome face. He has two piercings in his bottom lip, and one of them twitches, like he’s playing with it from inside his mouth. He’s wearing a nice shirt, and his sleeves are rolled up just enough that I can see the intricate black lines of a tattoo creeping down his forearms.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t find it, and I’m f – “ he starts, but seeing that the woman who just sat down is making her way over, he pauses, before continuing in a way which I assume is not what he originally intended, “—going to flip my jorts.”

The person behind the counter is a lot quieter, and her brows furrow as she replies. I can’t hear what she’s saying. She seems used to the phrase ‘flip my jorts’ in this context, because if I wasn’t about to lose my shit from realizing this could be the artist I’m looking for, I’d be laughing my ass off.

I reluctantly approach the counter.

The man steps out of the way, looking slightly annoyed – but he doesn’t say anything.

“What can I get for you?” the woman asks. Now that I can hear her, she sounds tired. The man offers her a wave, folding his apron over his arm and beginning to walk away.

“Actually, I was wondering if, uh, anyone who works here lost a drawing pad.”

I hear the footsteps behind me cease. Bingo.

“Wait, really?” the man says.

I turn to face him, leaning my skateboard against the counter while I shove my hand into the front pocket of my bag. I pull out the notebook, holding it out to him as I shrug my backpack over my shoulder.

“Yeah, uh, I saw it on a bench, and it didn’t have a name in it, but I saw –”

He takes it from me, a look of disbelief on his face as he processes what I’m saying.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupts, “you _looked through it_?”

I rub the back of my neck. The left strap of my bag slips down my shoulder. I shift to adjust it.

“Well, not a ton. I just saw the stuff that matched that sign,” I tilt my head, tapping the bottom of the hanging board. I’m tall enough to reach it.

His face contorts, and I can’t help but think to myself that he crafts an expression as beautifully as he draws. He seems caught somewhere between anger and gratitude, and I don’t blame him. Before he can reply, I continue, my nerves aching in my wrists.

“—look, I didn’t mean to snoop, but I was thinking, like, if I didn’t take it, someone else would, and you might not get it back. And, like, I take, uh, pictures, and if I lost a card with photos on it, I wouldn’t want someone looking through them, but I’d rather get it back, y’know? So, I just assumed that, like, if I could just find a clue –”

“Okay, okay, shut up,” he waves a hand, “so, you’re telling me that you used what’s in my sketchbook to find me? How the _fu_ – how did you do that?”

He must not be allowed to curse at work. It’s cute that he tries so hard not to. That’s a rule I probably wouldn’t be able to follow.

“Well, there was like a bit where you drew a bunch of cups and some fruit, and, like, a Starbucks symbol. I found it in the park across the street, so I figured you just came here after work or something.”

“How did you know I’d be working today?”

“Jeez, dude, I’m not a creep. I just followed you –” I laugh as his eyes widen, “I’m fucking joking, yo. It was pure luck. Besides, if you did work here, which you do, I figured your coworkers would know, anyway.”

“Well … thanks, I guess,” he replies, smoothing his hand over the leather cover.

“Yeah, of course.”

He steps off to the side, running a hand through his hair and turning to his coworker, who exchanges glances with me so briefly that it seems like it could’ve been an accident.

I tip my head at the artist, grabbing my skateboard and turning on my heel.

It feels odd, leaving. I fulfilled the ‘quest’ I had given myself; I found the artist, I returned the book – but it feels strangely like an empty action. Our paths crossed in such an intricate way, yet … they’re diverging again, and there’s a chance they will never cross again.

It’s melancholy, and if I wasn’t raised to be so cynical, I would call it _bittersweet_.

I pause.

“Hey,” I turn back, and the artist looks up, his eyebrows raising at me. His face is so charming; he radiates a kind of warmth I can feel in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with the temperature of the room.

“What?”

“I just wanted to say, like, your art is really good. It’s awesome. I know, like, how it can suck when people see your stuff without asking, but … I’m really glad I saw it.”

“Oh,” he smiles, and I feel something in my heart dive up into my throat, “thank you.”

“I don’t know if this is weird – “

“It isn’t,” he interrupts, walking away from the counter and gesturing for me to follow him towards the door, “and I really appreciate your words. I mean – yeah. I really want to be an artist. But, like, do tattoos and stuff.”

I push open the door, holding it open for him as I walk outside. I pull down my sleeves with my free hand.

“I think you’d be really good at it, dude. I’d get one.”

He laughs. It’s like a song I don’t want to get out of my head.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, do you, like – want to go out sometime? Like, you could show me more of your art, and I could show you some of my photography, if you’d want to see.”

“I’d like that a lot.”

I can’t help but smile at him, and when he smiles back, my whole body is full of butterflies. I feel like a teenager with a crush.

“My name’s Dave, by the way.”

“Karkat.”

_Karkat._ The sound makes flowers bloom in my chest. Maybe like the ones in his book; I’ll have to ask him about the names of them. Not now, though; while we walk down the street in the cool, autumn air, I want to look at him, more than anything else. The sun dances across his brown eyes and in his hair.

Besides, something tells me I’ll have all the time in the world to do so.


End file.
